


Heart on Tongue

by sewn



Series: Season of Kink 2019 [6]
Category: The Shannara Chronicles (TV)
Genre: Druid Apprentice Mareth, F/M, Leather, Pain Kink, Parent/Child Incest, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-08 02:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20288005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewn/pseuds/sewn
Summary: ”Say what you’ve got to say,” he rumbles, emotion veiled if there’s any. ”We’ll get it done. You’re too distracted. And you need the lesson.”





	Heart on Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt ”leather/rubber” on my Season of Kink bingo card.

It’s not his strength or weight that makes her crumble. The scent and the creak of leather around her are too much to bear. She concedes, by instinct, victim to her fantasizing. She lets her sword go and merely shields her face as she falls ungracefully, an animal belly-up.

”I’m – I’m sorry,” Mareth gasps weakly at her father’s feet. She can’t think of any lies, and he knows anyway. ”I’m too turned on to concentrate.” She clambers up, palms smudged, and with effort keeps her eyes on his. ”Maybe we can stop.”

Allanon shakes his head like she feared he would. ”You should take care of your needs.”

Mareth’s cheeks burn. Does he mean to shoo her off into the woods to rub herself into another unsatisfactory ending? It’s that, exactly, that’s lead her here, letting her fantasies be fuelled by the thrill she gets from the scent of his attire. She’s always liked leather, though not to this extent, but here, alone with him, it’s apparently the only thing her aroused mind clings to, an association that now proves unfortunate.

”What is it that you want?” he continues abruptly. ”Ask it of me.”

Mareth is bashful, suddenly, a reaction she immediately hates. She refuses to be ashamed of anything, yet even for her, lust after your own flesh and blood is too much. She knows he knows, always in her head, of the low burning that has occupied her for months now – but he must be entirely used to ignoring the waves of desire from every front. Mareth hasn’t shied away from touching herself in the night, either, imagining him, his heat and scent closer. He never comments on it, and that silence leaves no space for shame.

”Say what you’ve got to say,” he rumbles, emotion veiled if there’s any. ”We’ll get it done. You’re too distracted. And you need the lesson.”

”Can I – I want to touch you,” she says, as steady as possible, heartbeat in her ears. ”Your coat.”

His face betrays no surprise or amusement as he nods and lets her step into his arms. It’s bizarre, their first embrace, an imitation of familial affection.

As the leather coat acts as armor, it’s thick but supple, worn to suit his movements, soft in all the right places. Mareth runs her fingers over a spot where the finish is in need of care. Cautiously pressing herself closer, she takes a long, stumbling breath in. It stokes the embers in her into a fire, and like in her dreams she presses her mouth on the leather and licks up over his breastbone. He makes no comment and she burrows closer. His entire history is in the smell of old leather, woods and fire, iron and ice. She wonders if she’s breathing in things from before this forest was born. She licks again, a spot closer to his heart, smooth but dirtied. She can taste the earth. It’s overwhelming and yet not enough, only making her body yearn for more.

”Can you hold me tighter?”

She wonders if he’ll tire of the game soon, but he does as asked. Her bare shoulders are caressed by the rough slide, and suddenly her arousal isn’t a mere throb but a burn, unignorable, insistent. Mareth slides her hands up his shoulders, following seams, skipping over buckles. She makes herself look at Allanon’s face as he speaks.

”And what else do you want?” His voice is flat, and Mareth wonders if there’s a wrong answer, if this is the core of the lesson, an exercise in restraint. If it is she is a hopeless failure.

”More,” she says, ”Of this – of –” _you_, it almost escapes, ”Your hands on my skin.” She lays her cheek on his chest, unable to look at him while confessing. ”Your fingers in me.”

”Get undressed, then.” A reply so fast it makes her head spin, her lungs ache. She didn’t really think – she pushes the thought away, insecurity a most unwelcome guest right now.

She is loath to abandon the touch of the leather but detaches and begins to strip, trembling hands be damned. Essential barriers discarded, Mareth looks up at where he’s waiting for her. Next to his statuelike demeanor, she feels soft and wavering in existence, open and wet and at the mercy of her body’s whims.

”Tell me,” he says. It’s softer. ”You’ll get it, but nothing more.”

She takes the needed steps.

”Touch me. My –” she weighs where to start, ”neck.”

There’s no hesitation, and she nearly gasps in shock as his palm is splayed on her skin, the span of his fingers enough to wrap her from nape to throat. He obeys too as she asks to be embraced again. Her senses are invaded in full with the texture and the movement, the friction against her sides and tensed-up thighs.

”Get down. Keep the gloves on,” she finally says, lungs and mouth full of him, her voice scratched. ”Get your fingers in me.”

”It’ll hurt you,” he says but goes down on his knees.

”I know.” He’s done everything so far, and it emboldens her. ”Taste me first. You’ll see.” She inhales through her nose as she lifts up her leg to plant her sole on his shoulder.

As instructed he spreads her open with his tongue but doesn’t linger. If it affects him at all, Mareth can’t tell. She guides his hand up until she’s satisfied he’ll truly touch her. The leather-covered fingertip running along her lips makes her fear she’ll stumble, but he grips her harder. Much thicker than bared, two gloved fingers is more than enough to make her feel full. She whines and scratches at his shoulder, and his other hand presses hard on the small of her back.

”One more,” she manages and gets a third, and already the push in makes her pant and shake and dig her earthbound toes in the damp grass. The fingers of his other hand sink into her soft flesh. He’s grabbed her lower. Held between his hands like that, she can’t but rock back and forth, shallow. She wishes he would read her mind, do what her body wants without her brain an interference, her mouth a gatekeeper.

”Say it,” Allanon murmurs. ”Thought and word must be separated,” and that’s the lesson, she knows, a rule, essential, but she still wishes she was an exception.

”Fuck me,” she whispers. ”Hard.” She can’t look down. ”Four fingers.”

”It’ll –”

”Hurt, I know,” Mareth says, desperate, irritated. If she has to obey the rules then so does he.

He does; it does. She makes a sound she didn’t know her body could produce at the intrusion. She’s far from dry but the drag is still more painful than not, and she’s sure she feels it all, the ridges, the seams, the dirt he worries about. She grabs his shoulder again, rubs at the stitching, other hand clamped over her treacherous mouth.

”Harder,” Mareth says through fingers, rough and high at once, ”Keep it up till I come. You can make me bleed.” If she can have it, she’ll take it all. ”It won’t take long,” she promises. She doesn’t want to wear out his welcome. He obeys again, and she bites at her own fingers, a twinned sting. His touch stretches her more than is wise, but it makes her entire lower half tremble and each hair on her strained body stand on end.

Her palm muffles most of the noise that signals her peaking. He waits out her shaking muscles before pulling his fingers out. As they leave her, a pleasant warmth returns to her raw skin, blood flowing where it wants to. Mareth finally looks down to find him still attentive but face closed-off as usual.

”Thank you,” she says, not knowing any other way to end the lesson. ”I’m – we’re done.”

It suffices and he gets up. Mareth stares at his stained glove, focus slowly reassembling. Why did she – why did he – her thoughts climb over each other – does he too –

”Speak,” he grumbles again, pulling the glove off for clean-up, eyes on the task.

”Do you want something?” She’s still disoriented, in a dream, it helps. ”My mouth or hands? To fuck –”

”No,” he says, sharp. Then, relenting, ”It wouldn’t matter anyway. Don’t fulfil wishes. Listen.” He looks her in the eye, and it’s not unkind. ”You need to draw the boundary for your own sake. It’s a…” he searches for a word, a rare hesitation, ”A tether. Don’t let go.”

It’s much more than he usually deigns to offer her. Mareth is grateful, if suitably chastised.

”Thank you,” she says again, starts gathering her clothes, thinking about how she’s left a mark in the leather, on him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this far & are into it, [here's my tumblr for the ship](https://allanonxmareth.tumblr.com/).


End file.
